Tom Celestial

tragic sunscapes descend to the beat of a drum

a later sits aglow and we do not question

i am foggy as

behold the craft of magnificence

Tom is grooving celestial bullshit again. You’re watching people talk to each other about nothing. Loudness dominate the space as if it lives here. Now he’s nodding his fucking head. Like, acting like he can’t control his own neck muscles.

He mutters something to you and you smile back at him pretending you understood. You wonder if it’d have been better to have not responded. No, you decide, that would have made you an asshole. Your drink is near empty. You grip it in your teeth and applaud the soloist.

As you wander to the bar, you sashay step past someone and smile, a legitimate smile, because that’s why you came out tonight. You’re still smiling as you order your next drink. They are glancing in your direction. You continue to smile.

Tom is still grooving, like, out of control.

The Misadventures of Grey-ham and Toddler Taboo - Part 1

Grey-ham lives in a box full of magic. The box never empties. 

u up?

you're trying to think of something clever and you basically say nothing. you send a text with no substance that looks a lot more cheerful than you feel. you have a pavlovian response when they text back. you say you're good and you ask about them. you stop paying attention to the tv as you think about what you want to say, something that won't sound sleazy, but really, you want to say something sleazy.

they're out with friends. you scroll through your phone and find someone else. you hate yourself for the next text you send. it's pathetic and low, but your heart begins to accelerate when you get a response that doesn't call you out for being pathetic and low. you play it cool and put the pressure on them to ask you for what you want. you make it seem like it was their idea.

there, the vines

We weren't sure if they were alive or dead. Maybe they were dormant, ready to grow leaves once spring came. Like a tree. I didn't know much about botany.

She took a picture and then I did too, because it looked like it might be a good picture. I made a comment about needing to edit my pictures more routinely. Otherwise, I just scan through the roll and don't think much about the individual shots. Digital clutter. I haven't followed up on that. This is the first time I've looked at that picture again.

I'm still glad I took it.

The Marble

He kept a marble in his pocket for good luck. Also because it could kill people.

It wasn’t a special marble. In fact, he replaced it several times a year—sometimes it was agate, sometimes matte blue, sometimes tiger eye—but it was always with him, in his right pocket, waiting.

The pants he wore were tight enough that the marble’s outline could be seen. 

It was beautiful artistry the way he took a man’s life. However, the only witnesses of his craft were his victims. He worked alone.

Like a magician, he added flair to his act. He told stories and used clever slights of hand to disorient and mystify. He was a true villain.

The routine lasted no more than a few minutes, but it felt like much longer. I tried to savor it, knowing it was the last entertainment I’d ever enjoy.